


Oh Virgil

by Writing01



Series: I Need Time to Change your Mind [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Amnesia, And i wrote this messy fic, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Angst, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Needs a Hug, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders-centric, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Angst, Custody Battle, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Angst, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders has Intrusive Thoughts, Dark Sides As Family (Sanders Sides), Deceit | Janus Sanders Angst, Fighting over children, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Growth, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kid Fic, Logic | Logan Sanders Angst, Morality | Patton Sanders Angst, Pre-Episode: Accepting Anxiety, Recovering Alcoholic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Redemption, Shame, Slightly Unsympathetic Sides, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Amnesia, Thomas Sanders Angst, Trigger Warning: Anxiety Attacks, Trigger Warning: Donald Tr#mp mention, Trigger Warning: implied/referenced alcolism, Trigger Warning: intrusive thoughts, anyway, because I said so, everyone is sympathetic, trigger warning: suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:11:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26190169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writing01/pseuds/Writing01
Summary: Virgil Anxiety Sanders isn't doing so hot. He has no one who makes an effort to make him feel loved.Not anymore.He feels hopeless and depressed.As he lies in bed following a particularly rough day, he recites a sardonic little wish. He wishes to either die or forget all the bad that's happened to him.Through sheer willpower, he manifests his wish of amnesia-- though at a cost. To unwittingly erase memory, a perspective of the past, he erases history. And the only way to truly erase history? To make like it never happened.He's regresses to his ten-year-old self.The Lights are hit with a few revelations about the (literal) kiddo, the Darks feel like they got a second chance, and Thomas-- God, Thomas is just a mess.Just as a heads up from your friendly author, this fic was originally not intended to be high quality so much as vent, so the writing right now is rough.However after reading through it, I realized I'd like to edit the pacing and grammar to be of a higher standard. So it's not great right now but I'm hoping to get it there. I'll yeet this message off of the summary box after the deed is doneChapters one, two, three have been edited
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil & Creativity | Roman & Logic | Logan & Morality | Patton & Thomas Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Everyone, Platonic DRLAMPT
Series: I Need Time to Change your Mind [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944853
Comments: 53
Kudos: 228





	1. ×××, are you awake at night?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil thinks in his bed about how much he hates himself before accidentally turning himself into a ten-year-old. RIP dude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: chapter contains brief suicidal ideation

I have absolutely nothing.   
Everyone I have ever loved - everyone I love currently in this moment - doesn't love me back.  
Heh. _That's_ putting it mildly.   
Here's the honest to Mother-Mary-watching-her-divine-son-on-a-damned-cross truth: everyone I love hates me. I disgust them, I scare them, I inconvenience them, I'm a burden, and - _oh man_ \- I really do just freaking suck, huh?  
I _know_ that I signed up to be the villain, the antagonist, the _rogue side Anxiety, here to mess up Thomas by consistently reminding him of every stupid minor failure he's ever made! Prepare to have a panic attack at four AM on a Monday!  
_ I know that I chose... that. I _do.  
_ Nonetheless, that doesn't mean the consequences of my actions hurts any less just because I knew what I was getting myself into from the start. Just means I hate myself everytime I do what I know is right, long term. Yay me.

It just kinda sucks.   
'Cause I... _love_ Thomas a lot. Like an embarrassing amount.  
I'd do anything for him, literally anything. He could tell me to put burning coals into my mouth and I would very seriously consider doing it.  
Thomas is a good guy. Kind, original, intelligent.  
Least we know who's responsible for those three traits in particular, right?...  
Truly, even if I wasn't his Anxiety, I'd admire and respect him a lot.

I guess I'm just too emotionally constipated to ever process in a healthy way how much it hurts that my Thomas just... _doesn't,_ feel the same. It hurts that none of them feel the same. 

Ew. Emotions.

I think I've just had a really, really long day.   
I've had a very long life, and no, I'm not talking about length of years I've been stuck in Thomas's head.  
It used to be that long days were uncommon, and something I could shake off relatively easy.  
Then they went from uncommon to a relatively regular occurrence, until it just seemed like every day I'm just waking up, regretting that choice, and just waiting and waiting for the end of the day when I can just let my head hit the pillow, where rather than sleep, I will just dread the incoming day for the next two hours as I desperately try to let sleep claim me...  
... like I'm doing right now. 

I feel bad.   
I suppose being persecuted for acting as who I'm supposed to be by the one who I act that way for just sucks. I'm excessive, stupid, unrealistic, intense, a bad guy, etc, I'm hated at best, just _ignored_ at worst - it just makes me feel bad. 

If I could buy love at a price, I'd buy it seven times over.  
One from Thomas. One from each of my fellow sides.  
I'd give my hoodie. My left arm.  
Hell - every material possession and limb I could afford to lose. Every material and possession I _couldn't_ afford to lose.  
My phone, my Tumblr, my Reddit, Netflix, Instagram, fingernails, skin, blood, breath.   
I’d give it all to them, everything I am worth, everything I am not. 

If I pray, and a god exists, would they even hear me? I don’t really exist outside the confines of Thomas’s mind. I'm nothing more than a glorified imaginary… well, I can’t really say _“friend” -_ imaginary acquaintance?   
The point is, I am very much not a person.  
I'm literally the physical embodiment of Anxiety; the monster to Thomas's Frankenstein. Less than a person, though Frankenstein was considered a non-person for being an addition of fractions where I’m just a division of one.

Wow that's an upsetting set of thoughts. 

I wonder if Thomas hears my prayers. He's kind of my creator, more than any real god, in a way.   
Huh.  
That's a weird train of thought.

The truth is, I doubt anyone would hear me if I prayed.

I miss Jan and Remus.  
I miss ‘em.  
They don’t _really_ care about me anymore though.

God,  
How has this gotten so out of hand?

"Now I lay me down to sleep.  
"I pray Thomas my love to keep:  
"Hope I die before I wake,  
"I hope and hope my time will take.  
"But I’ll live to other days,  
"So I pray to forget, as I lost my way."

* * *

* * *

Virgie wakes up in a really big bed. The blanket is kinda heavy.  
But it’s a nice kinda heavy!  
Kinda like the big hugs from Jan, and not like that time when Remus put a pillow on him and then sat on it.

Vee sat up, and stretched.   
Usually, he’d be real’ scared to wake up somewhere he hasn’t been to before, ‘specially if he’s alone, but…  
He feels okay now. Surprisingly...

He crawls to the edge of the big purple bed (that’s his favorite color!!) and giggles as he stares at the ground, before tossing the pillow onto the floor and moving off the comfy mattress. He falls onto the pillow. It's more fun than he'd ever admit to Remus.  
He stands up. He puts the pillow back onto the bed for whoever the room belongs to. He wants to be polite. Jan is always telling him about manners, telling him to be polite.  
Virgil takes a look around the room, hands inside his little pockets. 

The person in here likes Halloween a lot!  
There's black and purple everywhere, with little Halloween decorations all across the room.   
Halloween is his favorite holiday too. He likes the way everything is dressed up on Halloween to be scary looking without actually looking very scary. That’s why he likes Halloween so much.  
He wonders if this person likes Halloween for the same reason!  
He smiles brightly as he touches some fake cobwebs hung down from one of the bedposts. It’s so soft!  
He’s excited for Halloween this year. Even if Thomas doesn’t dress up (something Virgil actually likes better - people would just think he had a dumb costume), he always _loves_ the cool holiday parties with cupcakes and cookies.  
He idly strokes the cobwebs, content.

Sometime later, there’s a tug in his belly, and even though Virgie’s never felt this before, he knows what it means:   
Thomas is calling to him - he’s calling for him to _meet_ him.

Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no no no no no no no no NO.  
What if Thomas _doesn’t_ like him?  
He stalls for a moment, thoughts spiralling, trying to _stop -_ but there’s that tug again!  
Oh, sweet Jesus, _no.  
_ Oh lord, Thomas is probably mad at him - what could he have done already!? Thomas hasn't even met him yet!  
Why else would he call for him now!

Swallowing hard, tears pricking his eyes, he sinks down, not willing to wait for a third tug.   
He’ll never feel ready anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> word count: 1 127
> 
> Loosely inspired by "AAwake at Night" by half~alive and "Immortal" by MARINA


	2. "No Regret?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Light Sides and Thomas take note of Anxiety's absence and act on it.  
> Patton's paternal instincts kick in.

Today, like most absurd days, started normal.   
Per usual, I made breakfast. Logan and Roman came downstairs, per usual, and the three of plus a fourth empty seat with a plate full of syruped pancakes, per usual.   
We finished our meal, Logan dutifully put Anxiety's mean in a tupperware at my request, with a note I'd written, of course _(“Are you a pancake? Because when it comes to you I_ **_see, rapt_** _ **,** with affection-attention!”) _as Roman cleared the table. The whole time he wouldn't stop making little _tsk tsk tsk!_ noises and comments, _“(Really, Patton, I understand that you want to reach out to the emo emu, but come now - he’s an_ emo emu!")   
I washed the dishes, chatted amicably with the other two about Thomas's plans later that day. He'd been planning to get some smoothies and an pizza later with a few close friends.

Afterwards, we went to pop in on Thomas, a kind of ritual now. It had started after our dear Thomathy had accidentally set the microwave on fire when trying to put together a bowl of cereal, and Logan had happened to rise up at that moment just in time to take note of the situation and remind our person that he could use the sink's sprayer to put out the rising flames. We'd spent a large part of the morning trying  
to understand why he'd true to use the microwave for Cheerio's, Roman desperately exclaiming that Thomas was just being creative - _"Have you considered that maybe that's a problem, Princey?!"  
_ The rest is history.

The three of us rose up at once, exchanging smiles and greetings with Thomas. 

Then we noticed the first irregularity of the day, the first wrong turn: Anxiety was _nowhere_ in sight.  
Usually he'd have appeared by then, brushing off my questions about if he'd like to join us for lunch later, or maybe next breakfast.   
Concern welled up inside me like a balloon.

“Hmm. It’s possible that Anxiety is listening to his music too loudly to realize what is happening,” reasoned Logan, “or... perhaps he fell asleep. I’m sure that there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for his absence. Nothing to be worried over if we don't have any evide--

“Okay, all due respect, Data, I don’t see why we should really care,” Roman blurted out. At my affronted gaze, he continued quickly, “I mean really, I know you like the kid Pat, but if he doesn't want to be a part today - _or any day,"_ he mumbles under his breath, "I say we leave him alone. He _probably_ prefers it anyway!"

Thomas began to nod along with Roman, so I started in, "That might _be,_ but it might _not!_ We should make sure Anxiety's doing okay." Roman opened his mouth indignantly, and I bulldozed past him, "What if something is wrong? We should check on him, hear it straight from the horse's mouth. If the kiddo really wants to be alone today, then we'll just make like Barry B. Benson and -"  
"- buzz off?"  
"- sue the human race for unethical honey production!"  
I paused and thought about it. “Oh yeah, that too.”

Thomas hesitated, “That’s a good point, Pat, but I kinda agree with Roman. All he usually does anyway is make me second guess myself, y’know? If he isn’t here… I - _maybe_ I shouldn’t question it.”

My eyes widened. I know Anxiety could be a little... _much_ sometimes, but I expected better from Thomas. Before I could scold him, Logan added his two cents.  
“Yes, Thomas, it is true that Anxiety makes you, for lack of a better synonym, _anxious_ , but it is important that you’re cautious. I say we check on him,” I smiled widely at Logan, thinking he understood, but he dashed my hope immediately thereafter - “not for him, necessarily, but for _Thomas’s_ well-being.” 

My stomach drops again, upset no one actually cares that Anxiety was gone, and Roman sighed theatrically, “Fine, but know that I only approve of this choice because I care for Thomas!” 

“I - alright, I’ll summon him, but only if all of you _really_ think it’s a good idea…” Thomas did a quick sweep off the three of us, from Logan’s steady “yes” to Roman’s eye-roll and dismissive gesture, and finally my urgent nodding, before extending out a hand, palm up, to Anxiety's spot on the staircase, and raising up his arm. 

We all stared at Anxiety’s empty spot for around six seconds.

* * *

* * *

The spot stays empty.

Our person looks to his Logic for guidance.

“That is… I - yeah, uh - that's strange. Try again, Thomas.” 

Thomas nods and repeats the motion.

For a brief moment, nothing happens once more, and I hear Roman inhale, practically screaming _I-told-you-so!_

Then a figure materializes on the stairs.  
Relief swells in my body before turning odd as I take the person in.  
For starters, they're short. Less than four and a half feet (~137 centimeters) at most.   
They’re draped in a hoodie much similar to our Anxiety’s.  
What strikes me the most is how their face is downcast, their shoulders shaking.  
A second later, I realize they’re just a child.

Movement sparks my system, and before I am aware of myself, I am rushing forward, arms out, ready to scoop the kiddo up and tell the poor thing they’re alright.  
Roman roughly grabs me by the shoulder and arm as I try to move past - “Patton, _stop!_ We know nothing of this… this… _this child--?”  
_ His grip loosens in surprise as he takes in the age of our guest, and I take the opportunity to shrug him off.   
He either lets me or isn’t processing the situation fast enough to stop me.

In moments, I’m crouched to the kid’s eye level, and reaching out slowly to cup their chin and bring their eyes to mine. 

Maybe I expect them to lean in, or say no, or maybe do nothing, but I’m not expecting them to flinch backwards, falling over roughly on the stairs in desperation to get away from me. My heart practically breaks at the sight.  
“S-- st-- _stop!”_ I freeze on instinct, hearing the little voice, so I back up slowly, hands raised to show I’m no threat. 

The little boy - and I assume he’s a little boy now that I can clearly see his face - scoots backwards into the wall and hugs his knees, sobbing much harder.

Roman walks forward, a hand loosely on my wrist for support. For who, I can’t be sure.

Logan shuffles ahead, Thomas in tow.

“Well, it would appear that Patton was right.  
“Checking on Anxiety seems to have been the best course of action.”


	3. Things Become Clear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan takes the lead.

“S- st-- _stop!”_

Patton winces but compiles, even going so far as to give the young stranger space.

 _Interesting. Patton’s fatherly nature extends to everyone,_ I muse to myself. A voice incredibly similar to Anxiety’s chimes in, _and your robotic tendency to observe and analyze emotional situations like a horror-movie mad scientist is as strong as ever too, hmm Logic?_

I shrug it off. As Roman leans forward to Patton, I trade a glance with Thomas and motion for him to follow my lead as I step to the weeping child.  
I clear my throat unceremoniously, taken off guard by the sudden turn of events.

“Well,” I start, “it would appear that Patton was right.” Thomas eyes me in confusion, “Checking on Anxiety seems to have been the best course of action.”

Roman’s gaze snaps to mine, alert, “You mean to say…” he motions haphazardly to the child before us.  
I shrug pointedly without saying anything.

Thomas bites his lip and puts his hands on his head, agitated.  
I take the cue.

I clear my throat - _“Ahem,”_ I step past Patton and sit on the bottom step, three from who I presume to be a younger version of Anxiety.   
“Greetings.” He curls in on himself tighter, and Roman goes wary, not trusting the small figure despite the boy’s obvious terror. I wave my fellow off before turning once more to the adolescent.

I wait a few seconds before abruptly asking, “Can you please tell me what five multiplied by two is? Take your time.”  
Still sobbing like he just spent two minutes in the same room as Remus with internet access (that is to say, _uncontrollably_ ), he raises his head from his hands, chokes out a frantic, _“TEN!”_ and promptly lets his face drop back behind his sleeves in a vain attempt to muffle his cries.   
“That was well done, considering.” I nod approvingly to him, “Can you please tell me what seven minus four is? _And_ take your time now - I encourage you to collect yourself.”

He nods, and moves his arms down a little. His eyes are still scrunched, his red cheeks are covered in tears, and the snot dribbling from his cute little nose mixes in, figuratively painting quite the depressing picture.  
Gulping madly, and wiping his face as best he can on the back of his sleeves, he hiccups out between great gulps for air, “The-- the-- three.” 

I smile at the boy, then continue, “You’re doing good. Just one more question, then we’ll be done, alright? What’s nine added to three?”  
Shoulders shaking, though only sniffling slightly now, “Twelve.”  
“Good. That’s very good.” 

_Softness isn’t your strong suit,_ Logic, _what are you even doing?  
_ The voice keeps cursing my shortcomings. Regardless -  
“Do you feel better now, child?” 

He pulls his knees to his chest and doesn’t speak for a half-second - “If I say yes, will I be done with the math?”   
From the joke, a small, fatherly sounding chuckle sounds from behind me, and I’m almost startled. Embarrassingly, I’d… _forgotten_ that the others were here too.

I nod lightly, “You are humorous.”  
He studies the ground, “Thanks.”

I lean back into the wooden railing of the stairs, and motion at Patton, Roman, and Thomas. “Would you feel alright if these three come closer and sit down too? I encourage you to choose freely.”  
He waits a moment, hesitating all the while, before mumbling, “Yeah, sure. They can do that.”  
I give a slight movement in my head, indicating for them to come closer. Roman awkwardly sits on the floor where he is; Patton moves quickly to the child, sitting beside me; Thomas sits a little bit behind us.

I aimlessly tug at the carpet self-soothingly as the child leans back into the wall and fiddles with the ends of his sleeves. We wait together a moment, taking things in, before I break the silence.

“I admit, I am confused. I’m sure my acquaintances here feel the same -” Roman mumbles something and I hear Thomas shuffle a little before a muffled ‘ow!’ comes from behind me, indicating Thomas scolded Roman; I don’t turn around - “Do you not know what’s happening here either?”

I hope my probing is at least gentle.  
 _You’re not gentle._

He shrugs. “I was called here.”  
My heart figuratively skips a beat. _I knew it!  
_ “Could you tell me by whom?”

“My -” he struggles for words, “His name is Thomas, and he’s ten years old too. Have you… seen him?”

Patton freezes beside me, there’s a sharp intake of breath from Thomas, and I can practically sense Roman’s eye twitch.   
I’m mostly unfazed, having this been my hypothesis. “Indeed. Thomas Sanders, yes?” 

He brightens when he realizes I know him too, and nods enthusiastically.

I straighten up, plan already formed. “Listen, the three of us have something to explain to you before you can speak to Thomas. It’s nothing necessarily bad, so I'd like to know if you would you be okay with if we took ten minutes to consult before discussing with you?”

His lips purse and his eyes dart around the carpet, and I know he wants nothing more than to say no.   
“Yeah, sure.”   
I hate to make the child nervous, but we have to talk. If there was any other way…

“Thank you for your patience.” I hesitate, unsure of my next action, but my resolve hardens and I tentatively reach a hand out slowly.  
I brush the soft material on his shoulder with my fingertips, trying to communicate warmth.   
“We’ll be back shortly.  
“Promise.”

* * *

* * *

Virgil doesn’t feel good about this.  
He doesn’t know them, or what’s going on, or where he is, or why he’s even there in the first place! He doesn’t know how they know Thomas.  
He wants to see Thomas.  
As scared as Virge was (and is) to meet him, he's even more scared now!   
He just _misses_ Thomas.  
Thomas is solid and real and nice.  
This place doesn't make him feel good.

Virge scoots back into the wall again, and pulls his hoodie over his eyes. He lets the long sleeves slip past his fingers, and he curls himself tight into the warm and thick material.   
He idly plays with the zipper.  
He really likes the jacket.

Jan made the jacket for him.  
It had been for his last birthday.  
The birthday before that one - his eighth - Remus had gotten him a really heavy, big blanket. Jan called it a “weighted blanket” which was supposed to make people like Virgie feel better when they were unhappy.  
He’d used the blanket all the time. He’d worn it everyday, never washing it, and Jan had gotten fed up.

He never raised his voice at Virgil or told him he was being dumb, but he could tell anyway that Janus was really annoyed with him. Vee felt bad, but he couldn’t do anything without the special blanket.  
So on his ninth birthday, Jan gave him the big jacket. He said it was like the blanket. He said it would make Virgil feel okay too. 

So now Virgil uses the jacket for daytime and the blanket for nighttime, and Jan isn’t annoyed at him anymore.

Virgil wants to go to Janus.  
 _He said he’d wait._

He also misses Remus.  
 _But he said he would stay put while the grownups talked._

He wants to see Thomas.  
 _What if they’re mad at him?_

He doesn’t even know them.  
What’s it matter if he disappoints a few more people?

He frowns.  
Where did that thought come from?

It’s not a bad point though.


	4. "I've Been Sorry."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman doesn't believe the cute little kid out on the stairs is the villainous Anxiety.

We make our way to the kitchen to be sure the little tyke can see us, yet (hopefully) remain unable to listen into our conversation.

The whole time we go, Logan gives words of reassurance to the child-- “We won’t leave you,” “we’ll be here,” “you’re gonna be okay,” which-- _quite_ the strange color on our rather stoic Logan, I’d be remiss in leaving unacknowledged. 

This kind of sympathetic kindness is more usually seen in Pat. Speaking of, I can tell how badly the father figure himself wants to more proactively help the young prince before us, but he must realize too that the best thing for the kid is to let Logan take the reins. It’s commendable on his part. Stepping back is difficult.

I’d know.

Thomas looks shaken at the implications Logan brought to our attention. 

I refuse to believe them. 

Anxiety is… the _bad guy._ I should know-- Thomas _“hoped and dreamed to get rid of his Anxiety!”_ after all. Thomas doesn’t want Anxiety. Thomas _hates_ Anxiety. Thomas told me that he _aspires_ to get _rid of_ Anxiety. 

Who would I be to refuse him?

Thomas is many things _(handsome, brave, exceedingly charming,…),_ but he’s not wrong about things like this.

He just _isn’t._

Glancing at him, I see he’s pale and twitchy. He isn’t as confident in himself as I am. I take his hand and squeeze it, almost trying to convey my thoughts telepathically to him.

Whoever that darling on the staircase is, it’s _not_ Anxiety. Children aren’t capable of bullying and hatred to _that_ extent. 

No. We aren’t wrong about him.

Thomas gives me a false and wobbly smile, mind still miles away from me.

I shake off my thoughts as we finally get to the threshold of the kitchen. 

Logan motions to the corner tucked between the refrigerator and the sink, clearing his throat authoritatively.

“I suggest we take a seat.” 

It’s undignified to sit like a peasant on the ground. I pout, heaving a sigh, and take a spot sluggishly on the floor anyway. 

It’s more undignified to be _immature._

Patton sits down immediately, ready to discuss. Thomas gets to the floor, still obviously freaked out. Logan sits mechanically, back totally straight in criss-cross style. 

There’s a beat.

 _Someone must start this conversation._ “That’s not Anxiety.” I begin firmly.

“Oh? What is your evidence?” Logan sounds genuinely intrigued. He probably genuinely is, knowing the nerd. Given how unfeeling the guy can be, I suppose I see where he is coming from in his uncertainty of character and emotion.

“Simple really,” I say, nonchalantly, 

“Anxiety is… well, kind of a _bully,_ really--” Patton winces visibly, 

“-- I’m not saying he can help it! I don’t know if he’s just insecure and takes it out on us--” Thomas’s eyes snap to me and he almost looks… embarrassed? _Who for,_ I ponder, 

“-- or if he even can consciously get that it’s an issue he should be working on, because _really,”_ I give a short laugh at the situation, and at Anxiety, 

“it’s _obvious_ he’s got some deep-seated, in denial about, issues concerning the real state of his ego, probably why he overcompensates so drastically, but--” 

_“Roman,_ we don’t have the time for this,” Logan cuts in. I raise an eyebrow skeptically at him, greatly offended at having my persuasive argument so quickly stopped. Before I can even _start,_ however-- “We don’t have time for you to villainize, psychoanalyze, and project onto Anxiety.” I recoil, shocked and hurt.

An unpleasant feeling slithers into my stomach and I feel so… _strange._ Like a nightmare where Thomas is naked at school and everyone thinks his body is funny-looking. _Disgusting._

I sputter then explode (quietly of course, for the sake of the child), “Excuse me, _Logic!”_ I opt to ignore the way he cringes away from me as I call him by his title rather than name, averting his gaze from mine. 

_Whatever,_ I snap, _he_ deserves _to feel a little bit of the way he just made_ me _feel._

“You are a _hypocrite!”_ My voice comes out slow, emotion ripping it apart through cold shakes in tone. I hope they assume it’s from a righteous anger, “You psychoanalyze me the same _breath_ you tell me to not psychoanalyze him. You villainize _me_ as you tell me to stop the same? I _project!_ Thank you very much, _Suck_ -erberg, but the only projection _I_ do is on a stage, _singing_ ,” I inhale through my teeth, stabbing him to death with my eyes, _“Have you bothered to consider that maybe you’re the one projecting?”_ I growl out.

There’s an ugly and tense moment of silence. That awful emotion swirls inside of me. Like guilt, but to my person.

Logan tugs at his fingers and opens his mouth, eyes on the floor in front of him, face ablaze in a shameful blush.

_“Roman,”_

I turn to Patton, caught off guard by his sudden start.

Perhaps I will _finally_ be defended!

Patton sighs and looks to the ground guiltily.

Uh oh.

“I hate that we have to have this conversation _this_ way, but--” 

_You too?_ I note with a sinking sensation.

He takes a steadying breath.

“Logan’s right. I know how you feel about Anxiety, but right now, we have to stow that away and talk about it later. Right now, the kiddo needs us more than you do. I’m-- I’m _sorry.”_

My mouth falls open, indignantly, pain springing through me at this betrayal.

Ganging up on me, silencing me, making me feel stupid! In front of _Thomas?_

_Low._

Even for _them._

 _“Thank you,_ Patton. As I was saying: we don’t have a lot of time. If my current hypothesis is correct, and it is, that boy is a de-aged Anxiety who doesn’t recall anything from the past eighteen years.

"And Roman had a point.” 

I’m too awful right now to feel anything other than that.

“Our Anxiety was a mean and childish bully.” Patton winces once more. 

“This one is different. I propose, if I am correct, which again, I am, that we explain to the boy that we are all, respectively, Logic, Morality, Creativity, Thomas,” he points to us in turn at our titles, “grown up, and that we will raise him and take care of him better than…”

He trails off, decidedly not going to mention The Others, before clearing his throat.

“We can raise him to actually be _good._ As we do that, we look to discover what changed him to ensure it doesn’t happen to us. Thoughts?”

I refuse to speak.

“There was nothing wrong with him before, Logan!” Patton starts. Logan raises an eyebrow challengingly. “There _wasn’t!_ He was a good kid with a good heart. He was just a little misunderstood! We were breaking ground with him, guys. Yes, I agree, we should raise and help him, but you guys can’t do it _right_ if you go in thinking he’s just an antagonist to be fixed.” He snaps out. 

“And by the way, Logan, I disagree! We can’t just leave him as a _kid!_ We should try to reverse this and bring _him_ back, even if you guys think he’s more manageable as a child.”

Logan turns a cold gaze on him, probably brought on by the moral aspect proposing he’s wrong, “And why on earth would you want to do that?” he’s calm. _Too_ calm.

Patton sets his jaw, staring back with a fury I’ve _never_ seen, and in an overly enunciated and slow voice, similar to poisoned, too sweet honey-- “Because we are a _good_ person, Logan.”

I force a smirk down at the clear way it gets to Logan. He _fumes,_ boiling at the implication that he’s being unethical and cold. 

“Not a _single._ Pun. Who knew it would take sympathizing with the primary individual figuratively _dragging_ Thomas back to get _you_ to be a little more mature, _Pat?”_

Patton holds his ground, though his voice breaks, “Don’t even start with me, Logan. Argue my points, not my personality.” 

_Hypocrite._

Three tense beats follow, as Logan visibly works his jaw, grinding his teeth, and Patton stares back, rising to the bait for once.

The silence is broken by a muffled sob. Patton and Logan avert their gazes to Thomas without turning their faces away from each other.

His face is in his knees, and his hands grip his hair.

“Thomas?” I finally speak. 

“I’m fine.” Logan finally faces him, squinting, and Patton cocks his head disbelievingly.

“Falsehood…?” He sounds confused as to why Thomas would propose such a flimsy lie. I am too.

“Didn’t think I’d say this so quickly after _that_ fight, but I agree with Logan.”

I grunt in agreement. 

_“I’m just-- I’m just overwhelmed. I can’t handle all this at once.”_

I sigh through my teeth, eyes closed in an angry defeat. 

“Logic. Patton.” I hear them shift to me, though I can’t see through the back of my eyelids, _“Truce._ Only when we have to work together about the child.”

“And while we are with Thomas,” Logan adds.

I open my eyes and catch the end of Patton’s firm nods in agreement.

We turn again to our person. 

“Apologies, Thomas. We shouldn’t fight in front of you.”

He shrugs half-heartedly without meeting a single one of our gazes.

“It’s cool.”

An awkward silence rises.

Patton clears his throat. “Let’s go with the assumption that the kiddo out there is really Anxiety. We need to explain the truth to him. We need to reassure him that he’s safe and we’ll protect him, and then we can talk about what to do later. Got it?” 

He’s not asking us for our input, he just wants our assurances that we won’t get in his way.

I shrug non-communicatively, Logan rolls his eyes and nods.

Patton looks to Thomas.

Our person fiddles with his shoelaces. “Sounds good, Patton.”

I look to Pat and he smiles fakely, adjusting his cardigan. “Good. I’ll go get him.”

He stands to leave. Logan and I aggressively ignore each other. Thomas wipes his face with the back of his sleeve and tries for a cheerful smile, presumably for the child.

He’s so good at acting happy.

I don't know if it's in my function to be proud of something like that.

We wait just five seconds, and then Patton calls to us in a panicked voice-- “Guys! I-- Come here, _now!”_

I stand abruptly, ever the hero. Thomas and Logan follow suit, and I lead the charge to the living room. Even if I’m upset at Patton for taking Logan’s side on the judgement of my character, I’ll always protect him. I’m a good prince, after all.

We step forward.

I blink uncomprehendingly.

“Where’s the child?” _I refuse to call him Anxiety._

Patton faces us, breathing heavily.

_“I don’t know.”_


	5. What Goes on Inside?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas reflects and learns a little more about himself. Virgil's gone back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: description of panic attacks and anxiety attacks.

I can’t tear my eyes away from the spot where… _he_ was. 

Whoever exactly ‘he’ _is._

Logan’s theory makes sense about the kid we saw being a de-aged Anxiety. All the facts line up, I see it being true, and it would explain why Anxiety didn’t show up this morning when we called him initially. 

It makes sense. It does.

_Why don’t I feel like it’s right though?_

I ruminate for a moment. 

_Ah._

_Seeing Anxiety so vulnerable is a head trip, age aside._

I guess it’s just hard to put the image of this guy who seems to only loosely like me, who spends most of his time making me unnecessarily afraid, together with the concept of the kid who cried his eyes out and leaned on Logan for support when he couldn’t find me.

…

I don’t know how the situation makes me feel exactly, but I do know that I am upset and confused, and just want things to be better again.

Somewhere, I can hear Logan’s professional voice debating with the increasingly frustrated grandiose tones of Roman, Patton’s panicked words occasionally punctuating the verbal match. 

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling tears threaten to break. I raise a hand and trace my eyelid. The folds of last night’s insomnia stayed with me through the morning. All I want is to rest, but even if there wasn’t a situation as dire as this one plaguing me, I’m not sure I could relax.

Anxiety's probably anxious, so by proxy, I will be too. 

I open my eyes, letting my vision grow clear, and turn to my sides, abruptly breaking their ‘conversation’ before it can escalate any further than it’s undoubtedly progressed: “Guys, is it possible that he’s somewhere in the physical world, or do you think he sunk out?” 

I try to keep my voice even. I can freak out later. 

Logan turns pointedly away from Roman to face me, his hands clasped tightly in front of himself like he’s trying to strangle himself twice.  
“While we are able to move through this dimension, we can only go as far so far away from you. For example, as of now, we are limited to the confines of your apartment.”

“That’s a good thing right? It means he just went back to the mindscape and you guys can go pull him out!” Maybe the light at the end of this tunnel is closer than I thought it was.

“Not necessarily.”

_Uh oh, nevermind._

He fiddles with his glasses in a way that I would describe as ‘nervously’ if I didn’t know Logan better.

“There are… _parts,”_ he starts indecisively, _“_ of your mind that _we_ don’t have access to.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

He breathes in deeply, as if bracing himself for what he has to say next. Why, I don’t know. My foot taps anxiously.

Patton and Roman on the other hand seem to understand full well what’s happening: 

_“Logan, you know we can’t--!”_

_“He’s not supposed to know--!”_

They speak over each other rapidly, confusion barreling through my chest. It only gets worse as their hands fly to their mouths in perfect unison, slapping hard enough to sound very painful. They try to speak around their palms to no avail. 

Fear curls up in me, and I take a step back.

I’d say someone is stopping them from speaking, but the only ‘someones’ it could be are… _themselves._

_What on earth?!_

I turn to the only one left unrestricted for answers. “Uh, Logan buddy? Wh-- what’s going on?” I try to speak without my voice shaking.

He doesn’t say a thing for a tense moment, biting his lip, studying the floor. He raises his face to make eye contact with me-- Patton and Roman’s muffled shouts getting more panicked by the second-- he talks slowly, carefully, with deliberation, his words chosen, not just tossed out.

“These parts of you that we can’t access…” he trails off, “A person like Anxiety-- _he_ could access them.”

Roman rips his hand off his face with his other hand, “Logan, you’re treading a mighty thin line there, pal,” urgency laced in every word.

Logan doesn’t turn from me, merely raising a hand politely to wave Roman off, “Don’t misunderstand me, Thomas, I’m not saying that there are places only one side can enter in your mind--”

I cut in, “But you just said that of you four, _Anxiety_ is the only one who can go to those places!”

Logan breaks eye contact with me to study the floor once more. After a beat of tense silence, he makes a noncommittal hum that I can’t glean the meaning of in response, “I did, didn’t I.” he says. His question is not a question.

I feel my confusion only grow, and frustration rises inside of me like a snake, “Logan, can’t you just make sense? Why are you being so cryptic?”

“No, and I want to be, to answer your questions respectively."

He eyes me, "I _want_ to talk like this.”

_Falsehood._

He pauses and his eyes glance meaningfully to Roman and Patton. I look at them too, from Roman’s darting eyes and anxious foot tap to Patton, with his hands still securely over his mouth, panic still seeping from him like a bag of tea that’s just been placed in boiled water.

 _Oh,_ I think.

I look at him, feeling a dread I’ve never felt before.

 _Someone's listening,_ he's saying.

“I’ll repeat myself, Thomas.” He studies his fingers, almost casually. 

He says under his breath-- “I always knew my appreciation for rap and hip hop would come in handy.”

Before I can ask what the hell that means, his eyes snap to mine swiftly and he starts speaking quicker than I’ve ever witnessed anyone-- 

_“To review, there are parts of your brain we can’t access, though every part of you is accessible to more than one, but a side like Anxiety could enter these hidden spots, theoretically, wh--”_

The entirety of his speech lasts a second and a half at most, before he claps a hand over his mouth as well. 

I take a second to process what he’s said, the implication settling like a stone inside of me.

No one talks, but I think they can sense my panic. 

Patton pries his fingers off his face to break the silence, and says in a resigned voice, “Logan thinks he went back.”

_Back to where?_

_…_

_Back to_ who?

As if reading my mind, Roman mutters to himself, _“To the_ Other _sides--”_

He claps a hand over his mouth again, shutting himself up as soon as he started to speak.

My heart is still pounding, confusion and dread still inside of me like a menacing balloon _\-- like a balloon from a really creepy clown, as menacing as balloons get--_ as a sudden realization floods my head like a tray of ice down my back:

_Roman wasn’t the one shutting himself up._

* * *

Virge knows he wasn’t supposed to leave.

But he couldn’t _help_ it! He was having one of those-- one of those-- what are they called?

Panic attacks? _No._

 _Anxiety_ attacks. 

That’s what Jan calls ‘em.

Remus said panic attacks come out of nowhere, but this one didn’t come out of nowhere. 

Vee was scared ‘cause he doesn’t know these guys and he didn’t know where he was and he wanted to see Thomas. 

He wanted to go to the nice man with the glasses and the necktie, but he didn’t have anything to say to him. He woulda just thought Virge was being stupid…

He wanted to leave, and he knows you’re supposed to tell the adults when you’re leaving, but he knows he was being stupid, so the adults wouldn’t listen if he tried. He couldn’t stop being stupid though.

Now he just felt even stupider…

He got scared back there, so he left. 

He wanted to go back as soon as he sunk out, but what if they were there when he came back out and they were angry at Virgil? They were probably _already_ angry at him, he doesn’t wanna be there when they’ll punish him for being even dumber!

So he stayed...

And _now_ here he is.

He traces the scratches in the concrete walls of the Dark Side hallways. 

Janus tells him not to call them or himself that, but he doesn’t get it. Janus says it’s one of those things he’ll understand when he’s older, but Vee doesn’t get why he can’t understand now. 

Virgil stops thinking about those thoughts so he can walk down the halls. Janus and Remus were probably worried about him, he doesn’t wanna keep them waiting. 

He hopes they’re not mad at him either.


	6. A Sure Shame -- Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janus and Remus get into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: sexual innuendo, Remus

“Remus! I-- please just wait, for the love of all that is good, _goddammit--!”_

I turn around just in time to see Janus trip over the air with a yelp. I chug the rest of the lighter fluid in my left hand and yeet-yoink it over my shoulder. 

“I don’t often say this to you Janny, but I’m sorry,” I harshly spit out.

Janus shakily gets to his feet, grabbing the shed yellow gloves off of the stained floor. _(I crack a smile at those; the mysterious scars left imprinted on the floors would cause great disgust to the Others. I’m filled with a petty smugness at the idea of their reaction.)_

Continuing to stubbornly ignore how Jan’s taken off his hand-socks, I meet his eyes. The cocky (hee hoo, _cock)_ grin I had slides off of my face. 

“For-- uh, for what?” He shuffles a bit, straightening his capelet nervously. 

I shrug a bit, and gesture vaguely, “Y’know, I’m not sure…” I think for a moment, eyes trailing away from his face in thought. 

Have I dyed all his clothes light blue again recently? Drawn a penis on every scale he has while he’s slept? Stolen all his bowler hats and replaced them with m’lady-fedoras? That’s the stuff that always sets him off particularly well.

Unfortunately, or fortunately I suppose, if one’s name is (J)Anus Sandpapered, I haven’t done any of these things in recent memory...

 _Yep,_ I conclude, _Still don’t know!_

I look back up to him and give him a mischievous little smirk that would have made Virgie stick his tongue out and threaten to deck me if I kept _‘thinking whatever you’re thinking, Remus, I swear to god!’_

“…But whatever it was, it must have been _truly_ horrendous!” I can barely contain my giggles. 

He blinks a few times in offended frustration, “What are you talking about, Raym? As… _important,_ as I’m sure your thing is, I can assure you that right now--” he brandishes his ungloved hands at me once more; _how foolish does he think I am to fall for this cheap tactic?--_ “we _need_ to discuss V--”

I rub my eyes tiredly, “How our little Virgie is coming back home?” I finish for him. “I agree Jam-us, so please tell me already: _what did I do this time?”_

He opens his mouth hesitantly, but doesn’t seem to know what he’s supposed to say. He wets his lips, eyebrows slightly creased. 

After a moment, he settles on an almost polite: _“Excuse me?”_

I cock (mmmmm) my head at him, needing more context to his inquiry.

He gestures awkwardly, “I mean-- _I understand of course,_ but-- uh, just for the sake of saying it out loud-- uh, you could say it out loud…?”

I raise my eyebrow at him teasingly, _“Just_ to say it out loud?”

He splutters, “I am _incredibly_ offended that you’re insinuating I was asking for my own lack of clarity, Remus, really how childish of you!”

I cackle at him. He reddens in the face and indignantly makes a string of nonsensical word-sounding noises.

I laugh harder-- can I really be blamed?

Before he can lie any further, I save what’s left of his dignity, spitting out my meaning before he can even start spouting **_FALSEHOODS!_ **\--

 _“I’m apologizing,”_ he shuts his mouth like a mousetrap on its victims’ head, “for doing something you disagreed with.”

He nods along, eyes shifting around, “So I figured. How, pray tell, does this correlate to Virgil coming back?”

_Ugh._

He knows how much I _hate_ owning up for the ‘wrongness’ of my actions.

I bite the inside of my cheek, and swallow what must be the rising puke.

I try for a smile, though I’m sure it just looks like I’m grimacing in pain.

“You’re…” I close my eyes and gesture blankly, begging my lips to just force the tricky little words out of my chomper -- _“punishing me,”_ I finally manage, “for doing something… wrong,” his lips purse, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s uncomfortable I’m confronting the lie or if he’s upset I wasn’t fooled, “by telling me that Virgil is coming back. That Virgil is coming home.”

I strike a pose, “for your credit, you’ve finally found a punishment that _even I_ don’t get super duper, and I mean _uber,_ horny fo--”

 _“Oh my god,_ Remus. _Stop, Please!”_

I snort, and he shoots me a look. “Oh come now, snakey boi, that was _kinda_ funny!”

“I-- _sure,_ Remus--” the sarcasm makes me flinch back just a tad, but thankfully Jan doesn’t notice-- “Look, I-- well, _no,_ first of all-- _just no--_ I’d never do that to you, and second: don’t you want Virgil here? How would telling you _that_ be a punishment?”

I slap his arm playfully, _“Of course_ I want him here! That’s the whole point,” I go on smilingly, all in one breath: “the inevitable heartbreaking disappointment as I realize that I’m going to die alone as everyone I’ve _ever_ loved ditches me for the Golden Trio will _inevitably_ overwhelm me once you snatch the wool off of my eyes, explaining that Virgil still hates us for--” 

My smile falters, and I blink away salty eyeball juice. _“Hates_ us,” I start again, “for our more-or-less _nuclear_ falling out, and how it’s all my fault, really, for scaring him so bad all the time with the organs and stuff.”

Janus looks horrified, and it registers a moment late that this is because of my implications rather than the reminder of the stuff I did with JFK’s intestine in the Imagination that one time. 

“Remus dear, you-- you can’t think I’d _ever_ do that to you.” He steps a bit into my personal space and brushes my arm. 

I jerk away. 

_Ah._ He definitely noticed it that time.

 _“Do you?”_ he quietly asks me.

I stare into his eyes.

“Would you take it to heart if I said yes?”

He winces a tad. 

“Remus, I’m…” 

_Embarrassed? Hurt?_

_…_

_Sorry?_

Beats pass as he exhales slowly. 

He turns his back to me briskly and quickly rights his stupid little cape thing. 

“Virgil is coming back, Remus. Apologies darling, but I wouldn’t lie about this. Everything else? Sure, but never this. You’ll just have to take my word for it. Now, about making prepara--”

“And what if I don’t?” it comes out as a mumble, and I’m ashamed to admit I sound almost like a child.

He turns halfway to face me, the human portion of his face angled to look me up and down quizzically over his shoulder. 

“What if you don’t what, precisely?”

I drop into a deep-dab. 

“What if I don’t take your word for it?”

He looks stumped at my inquiry. Or maybe he’s just grossed out by the deep-dab. He would be right in that, frankly. Dabbing does feel like a line to be _snorted,_ not crossed.

“I-- how do you want me to prove to you that I’m telling you the truth, then, Remus.” I take note that it’s not a real question.

Whatever, I can answer it anyway.

“Tell me, in _absolutely_ graphic detail, how you came across this information, dearest snake-on-a-stick-up-my-butt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAH. You thought I was dead huh? It's been literally four months so valid. Anyway here's the latest chapter. 
> 
> Mostly worked past the majority of the traumatic event I experienced early October, so kudos to me babes. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed. Thank you for the patience and the support. Means a lot to me.
> 
> Anyway this chapter is dedicated to Vian Izak because his music slaps.
> 
> This chapter is probably one of the worst I've ever written and I apologize for that.


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